Wanna Know How I Got These Scars?
by Suicidal Button
Summary: The Joker tells a story. Rating for abuse and horror


**Disclaimer: I don't own the Dark Knight, or anything associated with Batman. The text in italics is from the movie, not mine.**

AN: Not sure what brought this on. I think I was due another angsty, weird oneshot. It's been a while...

I am _well aware_ that this story probably isn't how the Joker got his scars, before anyone says. I'm just writing it because I want to, not because I think it's fact.

Warnings: Gore. Serious gore.  


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_Wanna know how I got these scars?_

I'm curled up in my bed. It's cold – daddy doesn't believe in central heating, but that's all right. We have quilts. We survive.

I can hear mother puttering around downstairs. She always does this. Bit of an insomniac, that's what grandma says. Dunno what that means – she died two days after she said it. I never even got the chance to ask what an insomniac was.

Sounds cool, though. Don't it?

It's... God, it's got to be past midnight by now. The longest I've stayed up since... _ever_. Mommy always gets mad if I stay up past eight on a school night. But I can't help it. She's making so much damn _noise_.

_My father was... a drinker..._

The door slams open. Ricochets off the wall next to it and slams closed again – neat little trick, that. I sometimes try it if no-one's around. Makes a lot of noise, _shakes _the house, in fact. Wakes me up every time, but I'm already awake anyway.

Heavy footsteps. The same heavy footsteps every time, from those weird army boots dad wears. They're all torn and ragged now – I once tried to put 'em on, you know. Took one step and my feet slipped right outta them. Hit my head real bad.

"Gloria!" dad calls in his loud, gruff voice. I groan, curling into myself tighter under the duvet. I know what's coming. Mom knows what's coming. Dad knows what's coming. It's the same every other night, when he scrapes together enough money to go out. Dunno where he goes out _to_, but mom always cries when he leaves.

Damn, hate it when she cries.

_...And a fiend._

A plate connects with a wall. I wince. We're down to only two plates now, not that he cares. Not like he sticks around long enough to eat dinner, or anything. He always just criticizes my mom's cooking, anyway. Can't blame him – she always burns _something_.

But it still makes mom cry. And cry. And_ cry. _

Mom screams, suddenly. I sit straight up in bed, covers pooling in my lap, breathing harsh. My ears strain in the silence, I listen so hard that annoying buzzing ring starts, and I scowl. Maybe she just saw a rat.

No need to scream so damn loudly.

But then there's another scream.

_And one night he goes off crazier than usual._

I vault from the bed, not bothering to grab my dressing gown. The house is cold, but I'm wearing thick pajamas, army camouflage style. Sometimes I like to pretend I'm crawling through tall grass, trying to take down enemies with my big gun, because I'm an army guy.

Tonight, I just press against the wall as I edge towards the stairs, and hope the green pajamas don't give me away. But I just... I just have to know. Have to know what's he doing.

Mom never screams like... like _that_. Sometimes she squeals, or grunts, or groans. But she's always quiet... quieter.

My eyes fill with terrified tears as I inch my way down the stairs, trying to avoid the inevitable creaking. Dad's throwing around kitchen stuff, so it's not like he hears it, anyway. The bang of a pan connecting with _something_ – Oh God, please don't let it be _her_- makes me jump, and the stairs creak again.

Mom groans. I choke on a sob and clear the stairs, standing in the hallway. I don't want to go into the kitchen. I don't want to go into the kitchen. Why did I even come down here? There's nothing going on – just turn around, and go back upstairs.

There's a good boy.

Mom howls in agony.

"Mommy?" I whisper shakily, moving to the kitchen door where bright light streams through, illuminating the hallway. My breath's ragged, like I just ran three miles. But I didn't. I just came down the stairs.

So why is sweat sticking my top to my back?

"Please," Mommy gasps. I'm at the door, now, and I peak inside curiously. It's a morbid curiosity. Another _thing _I learned from my grandmother, and never found out the real meaning of. But it seems to apply here. Morbid sounds like a depressing word.

And boy am I sad.

There's blood. It's the first thing I notice, of course. It's the first thing _anyone _would notice, spreading across the murky white tiles, shining in the yellow light. Thick and dangerous and horrible.

I don't want to look.

But my eyes seem to have different ideas, as they trail further into the room and catch on my dad's broad back, covered with a coat. He didn't even bother to take off his coat.

He's bent over something, holding a broken bottle in the air. It's... It's covered with blood.

"Daddy?" I call, slightly louder. He turns around – his face is splattered with that awful red liquid. I feel my eyes widening in horror as he smirks.

"No," my mom gasps out, and I see that she's kneeling, barely supporting herself on hands and knees. My eyes widen further – I've never seen her like that. So... defeated. So _hurt_. Sure, dad gives her bruises all the time. But she's never...

_Mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself..._

She stand up in one sharp motion, causing me to gasp and move back. Her stomach... her stomach's all bloody. Why?

There's a kitchen knife in her hands, and my dad's eyes narrow as he turns back to her. I want to run over to him, jump on his back, stop him from hurting her. I want to do _something._

I love my dad. Don't get me wrong. I... I love him. Just... I don't love him _as much _as I used to, you see? He used to give me piggy-backs and buy me toy cars and take me to the cinema. But then... something _happened_. And we moved to this _shack_, and he started drinking.

Mom doesn't like speaking about it. I don't ask any more.

"Gloria," he growls threateningly. Mom's hand shakes, and I take a step into the kitchen, only to nearly slip. I look down.

My foot's smeared with blood. I'm gonna throw up.

..._ He doesn't like that..._

"Richard," she hisses back, clutching the knife tighter. He grabs his pan again – when did he let go? – and starts forward. She holds her knife up and he laughs.

"You're not gonna do it," he mocks. She pales... becomes _even _paler. I didn't think that was possible, but it turns out it is. I don't like seeing her like this. I don't like seeing _him _like this. But there's nothing I can do, is there? I'm just a kid, one measly little kid, as my dad sometimes likes to inform me.

There's no changing the world.

_...Not. One. Bit_

He lunges forward. She screams again – blood curdling, really. Huh, nice pun.

Or maybe this isn't the time to be making jokes. But I can't help it- I don't want to watch as she backs away, nearly dropping the knife, and he wraps his hand around it, yanks it from her easily. Why does she have to be so damn _weak_, huh?

Why?

_ So, me watching, he takes the knife to her..._

The knife is in his hands, and she's leaning against the wall, panting desperately. Apparently that big hole in her stomach didn't agree with her rapid movements.

I don't want to think about it, want to see it, want to _hear _it. But it's all my own damn fault – I could protect her, right? He wouldn't harm his own kid, right? I could just... just leap in front of her, stop him from hurting her.

Only... he doesn't seem to mind hurting his own wife. The knife slowly drawing closer to her proves that. The maniacal laughter proves that.

_...Laughing while he does it._

Why? Why would you laugh at something so serious, so gory? It's sickening. I want to be sick. I am sick. Why don't I just jump in front of her, just say something. Divert his attention. Do it.

I can't. I'm weak. I can't do anything. So. Damn. Pathetic.

The knife's in her chest, now. Slowly, slowly digging it's way to her heart. She's screaming – why have I only just noticed? Her screams are high, loud, and I tuned them out. How sick am I? How can I just _not _hear her screams, his laughter? Why am I not doing anything?

The knife pulls out of her chest and her arched back slumps. The last of her blood is ebbing out of her, and I know my face is the picture of horror, of disbelief. I can't be watching my own mom die, can I? This is all just some awful dream, some nightmare. I pinch myself and I'll wake up.

I'm pinching myself. Can't feel a thing, though.

Maybe that's because, suddenly, my dad's eyes are on _me_.

_ Turns to me..._

Why is he looking at me? I'm not doing anything. I barely moved. I've not stopped him. So what's that gleam? What's that look in his eyes? Why is mom desperately trying to grab a hold of him, even though she should be dead. Should have at least lost consciousness.

_...And he says..._

"Why so serious?"

I don't blink. I_ can't _blink. What sort of question is that – I can't be anything _but _serious. And yet... I'm not supposed to be? I don't... I can't understand this, at all.

"W-what?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. His mouth splits into a grin, a Cheshire cat grin. Awful, gruesome. My mum's muttering denials, trying to grab his sleeve, his coat, something. He bats her hand off... with the knife. I'm not even sure the new cut on her hand_ can_ bleed. Does she have enough blood left?

_... Comes at me with the knife..._

He draws closer. I step back. The door's open, I can escape. Get to the front door, it's a latch lock, so it'll open easily enough. Run to the neighbors, if they haven't already called the police. Screams are so common around here, it's unlikely.

There's no escape, is there?

"Why so serious?" he asks again. I shake my head mutely – what, should I grin? Would he stop asking me that question, that one, annoying question?

Mom's dying! Why won't he do something about that? Why's he coming at me, with that knife, that knife that's glistening a fascinating red, dripping it onto the tiles.

He grabs my arm. I try to squirm away, suddenly coming alive. I'm kicking, screaming, punching. He laughs, dodges out of the way while still holding me. Why's he laughing? Why's he attacking me? What's _wrong_ with him?

Is it me? Is it my fault he's doing this? Did I... did I do something?

"Hold still," he orders, eyes boring into mine. I... I fall still. I don't know why. He just killed my mom. He's there, with a knife, probably ready to kill me. And yet... I want to obey him.

I want to believe he's got my best interests at heart. That he's still my _daddy_.

God, I _am _sick.

_ ...He sticks the blade in my mouth..._

I gasp as cold metal touches the inside of my cheek. It tastes... like iron. Is that because of the blood, or because of the metal? God, I'm sucking on my mother's blood. Why can't I just move away?

Because he's my _dad_.

"Let's put a smile on that face!" he says happily. Maybe... maybe he'll take the blade out of my mouth and do a magic trick, tell a joke. Anything, please. Anything but... but _this _in my own _mouth._

The blade moves.

_And... why so serious?_

**XxXxXxX**

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